


Surprise Me

by sparxwrites



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shop, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Samifer - Freeform, Theatre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-28
Updated: 2012-08-22
Packaged: 2017-11-10 22:27:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/471378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam signed up to work at the <i>Trickster's Treats</i> coffee shop, he wasn't expecting to end up working the twilight shift. He got used to it fairly quickly, though, and life went on as normal. </p><p>Half a year later, he isn't expecting a strange customer with a taste for surprise drinks and entirely too many secrets to catch his attention, but Luke does, and Sam finds himself trying to keep the fact that he may or may not be falling for a man ten years older than him a secret. This time, he's not quite sure the solution will be that simple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Follow me down...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thirtyspells (weatherveyn)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatherveyn/gifts).



> Birthday fic for the wonderful Thirtyspells, who is an awesome author, and you should all go read her work right now because it's brilliant. :3
> 
> Apologies for any errors in this, I've never read Paradise Lost (all hail Wikipedia) or worked in a coffee shop (all hail the Starbucks menu), so it's a bit of educated guesswork for me. Unbeta'd, so any spelling/grammar mistakes are my own.

Sam’s expectations for what working at _Trickster’s Treats_ coffee shop would be like had been fairly simple – he’d take orders, make coffee, hand out sandwiches and pieces of cake, hopefully get some tips. The shop’s only small, but it’s popular and _expensive_. Being in the middle of the theatrical district apparently means that prices are at least double what they are anywhere else, and a wealthy clientele means decent tips. And, at the end of the day, it was only a coffee shop. How hard could the work really be?

Well. Those had been his expectations before he’d realised what his job would entail. Making coffee, serving sandwiches and cakes, taking orders... but between 5pm and 12am. Mr. Novak, the owner of the shop (also known as Gabby when Sam and his sometimes-co-worker Jess were annoyed with him) had announced gleefully that the only position they had open was the twilight shift – complete with dramatic hand gestures more appropriate to a teenage actor in a B-rated horror movie than the thirty-something owner of the most successful coffee shop chain in the state.

Sam had just thanked god that all his lectures are in the late morning and afternoon, so he could lie in. He’d be practically comatose from lack of sleep otherwise, and law isn’t the kind of course one can get through by half-assing one’s work.

Still, it isn’t all bad. At first, Sam questioned _why_ a coffee shop could possibly need to be open so late in the night, and had expected to be serving rowdy adolescents wearing hoodies with illegal beer on their breath, and old ladies muttering to themselves.

His fears were quickly assuaged, however, when the evening performances for the theaters had emptied out, and the shop had suddenly been flooded full of theater-goers, dressed up to the nines and demanding something to drink on their way home. He gets told to, “just keep the change,” with astonishing regularity when people had to run out to catch buses and trains.

That didn’t mean his job is easy, by any means. Serving so many people is exhausting, difficult work, especially late at night when tempers are fraying and customers tended to be rather ruder than is called for. And then, even after they close at twelve, there’s still an hour of sweeping and mopping and table-wiping and stock-taking before he can lock up, hop on a fifteen minute bus ride and collapse into his bed...

 _Far too early to be thinking about bed_ , Sam tells himself firmly, wiping down the table in front of him. He’s only just started his shift, and he’s not even behind the counter yet. His and Jess’s shifts overlap by two hours, and she stays on the till whilst he does a bit of cleaning up so there’d be less to do later. It’s something of a routine the two have set up, and it works, so neither of them see any reason to change it. __

“Sam?” calls Jess, as he pushes the chairs back under the table and moves onto the next one. Only six more to go _._ He puts his spray bottle and cloth down, and looks up at her. “Yeah?”  
She grins sheepishly at him. “...Would it be okay if I left, like, half an hour early today? I’m really sorry, I know it means you’ve gotta go behind the till, but Ellen’s got these tickets for that new _Paradise Lost_ production that’s premiering tonight, and it starts at half seven, and if I leave at six I’m not gonna have enough time to get back, get changed, and come over again, and-”

Sam cuts her off with a wave of his hand. “Yeah, sure! No problem, seriously.” He starts on the next table, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn lump of chocolate frosting which seems to have welded itself to the tabletop - he’ll have to ask Gabe exactly _what_ he’s putting in those Fudgetaculars of his. “But you gotta tell me whether it’s any good when you get back, because the posters look awesome-”

“-but the tickets cost your soul and life savings, I know.” Jess wrinkles her nose. Unlike Sam, she’s a regular theater-goer, not just a once-or-twice-a-year-if-something-interesting-comes-up, and she complains regularly about ticket prices. “I’d say get them anyway, though, I mean, look at the lineup – they’ve got Lucien Morningstar, Meg Masters, Lili- Lili... what’s-her-face, the one that looks like a creepy china doll, you know who I mean. _And_ Chuck Shurley’s in it.”

“Shurley? Seriously?” Sam raises an eyebrow. He’d been shown Shurley’s movies and plays at an early age – his dad had been a big fan – and anything with the man in it is an almost automatic must-see. “Directing or acting?”  
“Both.” Jess looks vaguely smug at the jealously on Sam’s face, sticking her tongue out at him. “And I’m going to see it and you’re not!”

Laughing, Sam squirts his spray bottle in her direction, grateful for the temporary absence of customers who would probably complain about unprofessionalism. “Okay, okay, fine, I get it! Lucky you for going to see the wonderful Chuck.” He shakes his head. “Don’t worry, I’ll cover you, no problem.”

“Oh my god, thank you, Sam, thank you so much-” Jess babbles, delighted. For a second, Sam thinks she’s going to run out from behind the counter and hug him, but then the bell above the door rings and the screams of a young child demanding attention fill the whole shop.

Sam winces, ducking his head down to focus on the table again, and thinks sympathetic thoughts in Jess’s direction.

* * *

The shift gets considerably better after the screaming baby and it’s haggard-looking parents leave. Jess runs out shortly after, stopping only to drag him into a hug, kiss his cheek, and inform him that he’s the, “best friend in the entire world and I’ll make it up to you somehow, I promise, seriously,” and so he takes the till, handing out coffees and the various ridiculously sweet treats that Gabe whips up, and chatting to some of the more regular customers that turn up.

Business is slow – Mondays always are, though – and it only gets slower when the performances begin to start at around seven. Sam spends a lot of time drumming his fingers on the counter and catching up with the reading in his law book. Between eight and nine is the slowest; there’s a whole half hour where no one so much as glances at the door, and Sam fights the urge to just kick back and have a little nap. The customers will be coming in soon.

* * *

As it turns out, he probably should have taken the nap when he had the chance.

When the loud, complaining, impatient, exhausted crowd of theatergoers that regularly floods the shop between half nine and eleven finally tails out and vanishes, Sam’s near to collapse. The shop is a mess (again, and he only cleaned it a few hours ago) and he had a blazing row with a customer that Gabe’s going to be mad about in the morning (not that it was his fault, the woman had tried to throw coffee in his face because she thought it was too cold), and it takes him over a minute to realise that there’s someone waiting patiently in front of the counter.

When he realises, he jumps, because the man’s just _standing_ there – he hasn’t rung the bell sat by the tips jar, hasn’t cleared his throat or said, “excuse me.” He’s just stood there, almost completely still, a small smile on his face as if he’s in on some cosmic joke the rest of the world hasn’t been allowed to know about.

“Oh, sorry, didn’t see you there!” Sam’s blushing, scratching at the back of his neck in apologetic embarrassment. “Sorry, we don’t get many customers in here at this time of the night. Can I help you?”  
“Ah, yes. I would like a coffee.” The man _sounds_ amused as well, if tired, and there’s something slightly odd about his speech that Sam can’t quite pin down.

He dismisses his thoughts, focusing on the situation at hand. “Any particular type?” It’s not terribly unusual for people to come in simply demanding _coffee,_ but it’s usually the younger ones, or if it’s during a busy time. Not a man in his late twenties, maybe even early thirties, who seems to have all the time in the world to just stand there. Sam waves a hand behind him at the board displaying coffee types and prices, and waits whilst the man’s eyes track across the board.

“...Surprise me,” he says eventually, lips curling up slightly further, and Sam fights down the urge to either laugh or back away. There’s something about the man that’s– not dangerous, exactly, nor powerful, but... disconcerting. As if he knows your life story and understands it completely, and is sympathising with you even as he laughs at you. Sam’s fairly sure that shouldn’t be as fascinating that is, the even intensity to his eyes and the half-curl at the corner of his mouth.

“Um, okay.” Sam raises an eyebrow, mildly confused. It’s not an unheard-of request, but again, usually from younger people during the middle of the day. Not a man who must be nearly thirty, wearing two layers of shirts, jeans with paint-spattered ends, and trainers that look like they’ve been chewed repeatedly by an enthusiastic puppy. He thinks quickly, considering the options. “You’re not allergic to anything?”

“Not that I’m aware of, no.” It’s not the most reassuring of answers, but Sam can work with it, and comes to a decision with a nod.  
“Eat in or take away?”  
The man considers for a moment. “...Drink in,” he decides finally, tapping a finger thoughtfully against his lips, and Sam doesn’t miss the wording change, wonders why he bothered with it.

“That’ll be $7.40 please,” he says, ringing it up on the till – caramel macchiato, with an extra shot of vanilla syrup and two shots of hazelnut, the top criss-crossed with caramel syrup, chocolate curls and tiny caramel crunch pieces. Technically, the chocolate curls are supposed to be used for the hot chocolate, but it’s not like Gabriel’s going to complain at him for making a drink _sweeter._ It’s one of Sam’s personal recipes, that he makes when he’s had a long day at work and needs a pick-me-up just before closing, and he’s been dying to get someone else to try it for ages.

“Keep the change.” Sam’s eyebrows shoot up when the man hands him a $10 bill, but he doesn’t say anything – because as if he’s going to complain about free money – and hands over the receipt. “What’s your name?” he asks, and when the man throws a pointed glance over his shoulder at the completely empty coffee shop, Sam’s cheeks heat up. “Sorry, I didn’t think- it’s just kind of automatic, by now...”

The man watches him fumble with the cup, same steady amusement on his face, for a few minutes before saying softly, “Luke.”  
“Pardon?” Sam frowns, mid-way through measuring out syrup so he can crosshatch it across the top of the frothy milk.  
“My name’s Luke. Considering you asked for it.” The stranger – apparently called Luke – raises an eyebrow. “Though, if you don’t want it any more...”  
“You’ll make me forget it?” asks Sam with a snort, shaking his head. “Right. Here’s your coffee.” He hands over the cup, smiling. “Enjoy your drink.”

Luke holds the cup for a moment, peering at the top of it and raising it to his lips to lick a chocolate curl off the top of it. Sam’s not looking at his lips – nope, totally not, because no matter how silver-fox attractive the guy is, in a scruffy kind of way, he’s probably nearly ten years older than Sam – but he can’t help but notice a glint of silver on his tongue. Yet another anomaly; guys aged thirty-ish who look as serious as this one does do not, in Sam’s experiences, wear tongue piercings.

After wrinkling his nose at the chocolate, Luke takes a sip, and his eyes widen. “What exactly did you put in here?” he asks evenly, and Sam winces. He _knew_ he should have stuck to something off the menu.  
“Um. Caramel macchiato with extra vanilla, added some hazelnut syrup, and then on the top there’s, uh, chocolate and caramel syrup and caramel crunchy things.” Sam rubs a thumb over the top of the counter, smudging at a stain of ink that’s been there for as long as he can remember. “It’s kinda sweet, I know, but-”  
“It’s very nice.” Luke takes another thoughtful sip, and nods decisively. “Gabriel certainly knows how to choose his employees.”

Sam frowns at that, because something in Luke’s tone makes it seem as if he knows Gabe – but if that were the case, why wouldn’t he come in during the morning, when he’s on shift, and talk to him? Whatever the reason though, it’s not his place to ask, so he just smiles and says, “Enjoy your coffee. You’re welcome to sit wherever, but I’ve gotta tell you that we’re closing in twenty minutes, so...”

Luke nods. “Twenty minutes is more than enough time to finish a coffee. Thank you, ah...” He peers at Sam’s name badge, where it’s clipped onto the dark green apron he has to wear over his normal clothes. “...Samuel,” he finishes, pronouncing the word carefully, almost delicately.  
“It’s Sam,” blurts Sam, without really knowing why. “Just... Sam’s fine.”

“Very well then... Sam. Thank you.” And Luke just smiles that tired, amused half-smile and takes his coffee to settle in the corner of the coffee shop.

* * *

Sam wonders later, when he’s sat on the bus, leaning his forehead against the cool window and watching the bright lights flash by, why. Why that particular guy. Why he’d turned up then, after the rest of the theatergoers had left. Why he’d been so compelling, so strangely fascinating.

Why Sam so hopes he’ll come back again.

And then he thinks of how Jess’s gonna react when he tells her about it, laughing and curious and treating it like a murder mystery, and he smiles. It’ll be something to talk about, at least – she’s going to have wonderful tales about the theater. Only fair Sam has some of his own adventures to talk about.

* * *

“...And so then he just sat in the corner of the shop for the next fifteen minutes, reading some kind of newspaper thing, and when I told him we were closing he just smiled at me and left!” finished Sam, dragging a hand through his hair, eyes wide with agitation. “I mean, what the hell! What kind of a guy comes into a coffee shop at half eleven, just asks for any old coffee, and then drinks it _in the shop_ and leaves, huh?”

Jess looks at him, eyes sparkling with amusement. “He left quite an impression on you, I see.”  
“ _And_ he had a tongue piercing!” Sam’s not entirely sure why that’s relevant but feels the need to add it anyway, and knows he’s made a mistake when Jess’s eyes narrow. “...What?”

She just smirks at him and shakes her head, and while Sam’s trying to work out how to stop his cheeks from going red, she asks, “Want to hear about _Paradise Lost_?”  
“Oh _god_ yes,” says Sam enthusiastically, partly because it’s a topic change, and partly because he _really_ wants to know how good it was. “Was it awesome? Who was Chuck playing? Did you get any signatures?”

Laughing, Jess shakes her head, and then there’s a terribly frustrating pause where she has to serve a customer, and Sam doesn’t think he’s ever whipped up a chai latte as quickly as he did then, desperate to hear what happened. “No, I didn’t get Shurley’s signature for you,” says Jess finally, when the man and his daughter are seated. “You want that, you’ve gotta go see it yourself. But yes, it was _completely_ awesome. Shurley was wonderful, as always – he played God, actually, kinda funny considering he directed the whole play – and that Meg Masters did an awesome job with Eve. Really unique take on the character.” She pauses. “And I gotta tell you, Satan was _hot_.”

It takes Sam a moment to process that, and when he does, he chokes slightly. “ _What_.” Jess giggles, and he knows she said that entirely on purpose, just to see his reaction. “...I beg your pardon,” he manages, swallowing hard and hoping none of the other customers were listening to their conversation and now think they’re satanists. That would not be good for business.

“You’ve read the books, you know what I mean. Satan, Lucifer, the Devil, serpent of Eden, all that jazz? He was really attractive.” Jess smiles. “There was just... something about him, y’know? Like there was this– intensity to him, this kind of... it was like he really _was_ an angel, you know, he was just kind of elegant and graceful, but kind of inhuman, and– I dunno, you’ve got to go see it.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know completely. Saw him in _A Thousand Deaths Before I Die_ , when he was playing... Nick, I think? That was a couple of years ago. Same sort of... detachedness.” He’d looked borderline crazy in that one, fairly apt considering the way his character lost his mind, but it had still been a chillingly brilliant performance. “How close to the stage were you?” asks Sam, as he makes a hot chocolate and a shortbread coffee special for a couple who’re clinging to each other and totally lost in their own world, despite the fact Jess is offering them their change. “If you could see his face, you must’ve been–”

“Oh, no, we were right up in the gods. Couldn’t have afforded anything else. Couldn’t see anyone’s faces.” Jess sighs and shakes her head. “When I said he was hot, it was... just about the way he moved, y’know?” And oh yes, does Sam know completely. He’s met people like that, who can hypnotise with a walk, and now he’s _really_ got to go see this if it has both Shurley and this Lucien guy in it.

He groans softly. The ticket’s going to cost a fortune, and he’s going to be eating baked beans for weeks, but he’s hooked and Jess knows it. “Oh man, I have _got_ to get tickets to this.”  
“Yeah. You so have.” There’s a smug sort of victory in Jess’s voice, as well as a hint of I-know-something-you-don’t. “Although you’d better hurry up, they’ll be sold out pretty quickly after how successful the premier was...”  
“Crap, they’re probably sold out already,” mutters Sam, irritated. “It’s gonna be, like, February before I can go see it. I can’t wait over four months!”

Jess just hums quietly in agreement, and waits for the rush of customers that suddenly appear in front of the counter to die down before clearing her throat lightly and tapping his shoulder.

Putting down the piece of coffee machine he’d been fiddling with and trying to reattach – he really doesn’t want to call Gabe, who’ll just be annoyed at him for breaking things again, as if he does it deliberately – Sam turns around, and his jaw drops when he sees what Jess it holding in her hand. “...Is that...?”

“Tickets,” she says, holding them out to him. “Well, one ticket. I thought about getting two, but I know Dean’s not big on theater, and I don’t know any of your college friends well enough to get a ticket for them, so...”  
“Jess,” he says firmly, in a slightly shell-shocked voice, “stop babbling. You’re amazing.” He hugs her, wrapping his arms around her and leaning down to kiss the top of her head, wondering what he did to deserve such a wonderful friend. “Why?”

She shrugs carelessly, as if it’s no big deal, but Sam can tell from the blush on her face that she’s delighted he’s happy with them. “Early Christmas present?” she suggests. “I mean, I know mid-October is kind of _really_ early, but I don’t have any idea what else to get you, and...”  
“They’re the best present ever,” declares Sam with a grin, kissing the top of her head again before pulling away. “When–”

He’s cut off by an irritated customer, a middle-aged man leaning on cane, clearing his throat and glaring pointedly at them. A small queue has formed behind him, and both Sam and Jess look mildly embarrassed as they serve everyone at top speed. When they’ve finally finished, Sam opens his mouth again, and Jess cuts him off. “Two weeks from now, on the Friday. I’ve already worked it all out with Gabriel, I’m covering for you, so don’t worry about that.”

“Jess,” says Sam fervently, as the next group of customers arrive. “You may actually be the most wonderful friend ever.”  
She grins, raising her eyebrows. “I know,” she agrees cheekily, “...although, there is one condition.”  
“...Yes?” asks Sam slowly, bracing himself.  
“You tell me more about this mysterious silver fox you’ve caught yourself.”

Even Jess agrees afterwards that she deserved the kick to the ankle she got for that.

* * *

That night, Luke’s back again. Again, he doesn’t use the bell, just waits patiently until Sam comes out of the back room carrying a top-up box of coffee beans, and doesn’t react when Sam yelps out a, “Jesus!” and nearly drops the box.

“I don’t suppose I could get a coffee again, could I?” asks Luke softly, and with anyone else, that tone would be sarcastic, but on him it just sounds curious and hesitant.  
Sam nods, taking a few deep breaths to calm his nerves. “Yeah, sure,” he says, hoisting a smile onto his face and tries not to focus on the way the customer’s mouth is slightly open and he’s worrying at his canine with the tip of his tongue. There’s that flash of silver again, and Sam swallows. “What do you want?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe another surprise?” Luke’s mouth curls up again, teeth and tongue visible in the space between his lips as his eyes laugh, and Sam tries very hard not to flush as he fixes up a creamy latte with a shot of chocolate syrup and just a hint of brandy, chocolate flakes across the top as before.

“Second play in as many nights?” he asks lightly as he works. “You must be quite the theater fan.”  
For a second, there’s something tight and guarded on Luke’s face, a wary sort of defensiveness, and then it’s gone as soon as it’s come with a small, vaguely surprised shake of his head. “Ah, I’m not usually an attendee to plays. I... work in the area, and only recently became aware of this place’s existence.”

He accepts the coffee Sam hands him with a nod of his head and payment – no _keep the change_ this time, but Sam’s cool with that. “It’s quite a nice little place really,” Luke muses, looking around the shop as if he’s only just noticed it. “And the coffees are... something of a treat, after my shift ends. I think you’ll be seeing a lot more of me, Samuel.”  
“Sam,” Sam corrects him automatically, busying himself with the coffee machine so Luke doesn’t see the look on his face.

Sam blames the late hour and his tiredness for the fact that, as soon as Luke leaves, he pulls out his phone and texts Jess, _The silver fox has returned to his hunting grounds. Rawr._

* * *

For the rest of the week, the pattern stays the same – Luke appears at about half eleven, when the shop is empty, asks for some new, invented drink of Sam’s, sits silently in the corner drinking it and reading those pages of his, and then disappears. And the next day, Sam tells a grinning Jess all about it and tries not to sound too interested in the mystery man, and keep any descriptions of the fixation he has on the man’s mouth out of his descriptions.

Then, abruptly, on Sunday he isn’t there. There’s the usual crowd of theatergoers, diminished somewhat because of the fewer performances on the day of rest, and then.... no one. Sam waits – although he tells himself he’s just being attentive in case any customers come in – for the familiar old-jeans-and-plaid and that tired smirk to walk through the door. It doesn’t, and Sam closes up at midnight feeling somehow cheated, without really knowing why.

* * *

“You weren’t here on Sunday,” Sam points out suddenly, the next day, as he hands over an espresso con panna with hazelnut syrup and liberal amounts of chopped hazelnuts on the top. He’s been getting more and more inventive with his coffees ever since Luke turned up – he asks for a ‘surprise’ every time, nothing ever from the menu, so Sam’s started experimenting on his own time, whipping up increasingly strange and wonderful drinks in an attempt to preempt Luke.

It’s gotten to the point where Gabe’s started to get curious about his sudden flare of inventive talent, and even talked about adding the Caramel-plus everything Macchiato to the menu. Jess had grinned, and nudged him in the ribs, and Sam had hoped to god that Gabe wouldn’t ask any more questions.

“I don’t work on Sundays. Did you miss me?” asks Luke, tone entirely innocent, and he looks almost surprised as he licks a curl of whipped cream and nuts off the top of the espresso, apparently entirely unaware of exactly what that tongue of his does to Sam.  
“Um,” manages Sam, not exactly coherent, but thankfully not completely gormless either. “Uh, it was just... I’d kind of got used to you, I guess.” He smiles hopefully at Luke, shrugging. “I’m having fun inventing different coffees for you, I gotta admit.”

Luke tilts his head, and the motion reminds Sam oddly of Dean’s best friend, Cas, who has the same kind of awkward not-quite-there-ness that Luke has too. It’s a strange jolt of familiarity, strangely jarring, and it makes Sam bite his lip. “I suppose I’ve got used to you too,” Luke replies slowly, blinking at Sam like he’s a puzzle to be worked out. “And your wonderful coffees, as well.”

Sam dips his head in acknowledgement of the compliment, flushing slightly and mumbling something like, “S’nothing,” and when he looks up, Luke’s sat in his corner, reading his papers as if the conversation never happened.

* * *

If, for the rest of the week, Sam tries to think up as many drinks involving whipped cream toppings as possible, just to see Luke lick the point off of the cream swirl, then what of it? He’s not hurting the man, and no one else is going to know that his guilty pleasure is watching a guy way older than him curl his tongue around the cream and look at Sam with those eyes like he’s unravelling Sam’s soul as he smiles that half-smile of pleasure.

Still. He feels weirdly guilty about it all the same.

* * *

On Thursday, Luke’s the one that starts the conversation. “You do realise that I’m most likely ten years older than you, don’t you?” he asks absently, sipping at Sam’s latest creation, an iced Caffè Mocha with chocolate chips and mint syrup.  
“What?” asks Sam, confused, eyes drifting up to meet Luke’s as his hand keeps slowly working on drying the cup in front of him.

For once, Luke doesn’t go and sit down at his usual table in the corner. Instead, he leans one hip against the counter and curls his fingers around his coffee cup, eyeing Sam curiously. “You’ve been staring at my mouth for the past five minutes – well, the past week, really. I’m not entirely stupid, Samuel.”  
“Sam,” he corrects, an automatic reaction now, and only just remembers to add, “I wasn’t!”

Raising an eyebrow, Luke takes another sip of his mocha, and then licks at the cream on the top. Sure enough, Sam’s eyes zero in on the motion, before guiltily flicking up to Luke’s again. He doesn’t see any irritation in them, or even amusement, though – the action looked more like a test, a question, than any serious attempt at seduction, and there’s a quietly curious look on his face.

And also a small fleck of cream still caught on his upper lip, so of course the only sensible reaction Sam can have to that is to lean forward and kiss it off.

It’s not a long kiss, not passionate or exploratory or even particularly on the lips – Sam’s mouth catches to top of Luke’s lip, tongue swiping over it, before he pulls away slowly. There’s a moment of silence, where Sam’s eyes get steadily wider and more panicked at the lack of reaction from the other man. “Oh, oh god, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have, that was totally out of order-”

Luke cuts him off with a single shake of the head. “Don’t apologise.”  
“Oh.” Sam’s not entirely sure what to say to that, rubbing at the back of his neck awkwardly and staring at the counter, fingers tracing patterns on it.

A hand catches his fingers, stilling them, and Sam shivers – Luke’s cold from being outside, the heat blasting in the shop having not quite warmed him up. “How old are you?” he asks, voice soft and understanding, and when Sam looks up to meet his gaze his eyes aren’t amused, but warm.  
“Twenty one and a half.” He feels mildly stupid adding the half onto it, but even half a year counts.

“I’m nearly thirty. Eight and a half years...” Luke shakes his head slowly, and Sam expects him to pull away, but he doesn’t, just holds Sam’s gaze evenly before leaning forward and kissing him. It’s slow, curious, as if he’s trying to learn everything about Sam from the way the younger man kisses, trying to memorise every inch of him from the feel of his lips.

The kiss seems to last forever, just the blackness behind Sam’s eyelids and the warmth against his lips to measure time with, and when Luke pulls back Sam feels oddly lost. As if the man’s taken a piece of Sam with him when he pulled away.

“I’m going to Hell for this, you do realise,” murmurs Luke quietly, lips inches from Sam’s, eyes half-lidded and inquisitive. Hungry. Sam feels as if he should say something profound, some kind of quote – if this were a movie, this is where he would make his declaration of undying love. But it’s not, this is real life, _Sam’s_ life, and so that doesn’t happen.

“I’ll follow you down,” he whispers back instead, and this time when he leans in to kiss Luke again, he’s met halfway by gentle, curious lips.


	2. ...and I'll follow you up.

“So... Uh, I kind have may have kissed him?” starts Sam awkwardly the next day, in between a lull in customers, stacking and rearranging the cups unnecessarily so he doesn’t have to see the look on Jess’s face. He’s not sure what he’d see there if he looked, disapproval or amusement or concern.

He doesn’t expect Jess to practically _squeak_ , “You did _what_?!” loud enough that the buzz of chatter in the whole shop quietens noticeably, and many people look in their direction.

Jess winces, waving a dismissive hand and waiting for everything to go back to normal before repeating, in a lower but equally excited whisper, “What?!”  
“Um, I kissed him.” Sam’s fairly sure he’s bright red, and he’s still got his back to Jess, fiddling with the coffee filter now. “He noticed me staring at his mouth and then he was licking at the whipped cream and he got a bit on his lip and he was just there so I sort of...? And then yeah.”

“ _And_...?” says Jess impatiently, and when Sam finally turns around her eyes are wide and curious, an odd excitement in them.  
“And... he asked me if I wanted to go have lunch with him on Sunday,” admits Sam, unable to keep what he’s sure must be a fairly dreamy smile off his face.

“He did not!” Jess’s volume is slowly rising again, and she forces herself to quiet down with a physical effort when people start looking again. “Oh Sam, that’s _awesome_.”  
“He’s eight years older than me!” whines Sam mournfully, ignoring the dirty look the comment gets him from the man he’s serving, who asks for his order to be changed to take-away.  
“Love knows no bounds,” says Jess, tone mock-wise as she strokes a beard she doesn’t have. “Follow your heart, you must.”

Sam rolls his eyes and elbows her lightly, and concentrates on adding the right amount of cherry syrup to a chocolate berry ice ordered by a small girl with pigtails, who’s staring at him as if the secrets of the universe are contained in the cup of sugar he offers her.

* * *

Sam leaves early that day, tickets to _Paradise Lost_ burning in his pocket as he rushes home to change and shave and try to wrestle his hair into some semblance of obedience as he races against time to make himself presentable. He misses the bus, has to catch the one that comes eight minutes later, and by the time he reaches the theater he’s a jittery mess of nerves, terrified that it’s started without him being there.

It hasn’t. Sam climbs the endless, winding stairs through the art-deco interior of the theater, feeling out-of-place and self conscious. Though there are some people dressed similarly to him – decently smart shirt, clean pair of jeans, nice shoes – the majority are in suits or cocktail dresses, dolled up to the nines. The women glitter with jewellery, and the men flash watches and expensive cufflinks, and Sam feels so very, very small.

The feeling only intensifies when he reaches his seats. Right at the back of the gods, the only place that students like him and Jess can afford, and the whole theater’s splayed out below him, crowds of people all talking and laughing, the place buzzing with chatter.

As soon as the lights dim, though, that all stops, like someone flipped a switch and turned the noise off. There’s a low rolling, the musicians hidden somewhere in their pit, drums throbbing and echoing through the space, and every hair on Sam’s body seems to stand on end at the electric _energy_ that ripples through the silent space.

The audience holds its collective breath...

And doesn’t release it until two hours later, when the play is concluded and the actors come out to take their bows to roaring applause. Sam’s on the edge of his seat, craning forward to see more – grateful he’s at the back, so he doesn’t have any annoyed shorter people sitting behind him and complaining that they can’t see – and he claps wildly along with the rest of them, eyes wide and bright with the excitement of it all.

Jess had been right, he thinks, as he rides the bus back home. Chuck had been brilliant as usual, no surprise there. Ms. Masters, not an actress he was terribly familiar with, had been wonderful too, surprising and engaging and passionate, and he’d made a mental note to find out what else she’d been in. Lili  had been good, nothing terribly special; in Sam’s opinion, she had her looks going for her as an actress, and not much else, but she hadn’t been _bad_.

But the real show-stealer had been Lucien Morningstar. Quiet, reticent, with a reputation as something of a diva – or, in the words of some of the less polite papers, a “spoilt, sulking child” – he’d looked utterly... unearthly. There really was no other way to describe it, the sense he’d got of the man being new to his own skin, confused, curious, calm over the surface of tightly compressed power. It was perfect, brilliant, and the fact that even Sam could pick up on it when he could barely see the guy’s face was a testament to his acting prowess.

It was weirdly familiar, but despite turning it over and over in his head all the way home, Sam can’t think for the life of him where he’s seen it before.

* * *

“You weren’t there on Saturday.”

They’re walking through the park, arms linked loosely together, shoulders touching. It’s not a particularly intimate gesture, but Sam’s skin still bursts into static everywhere Luke’s body comes into contact with his.

“I, uh, oh, sorry about that. Hope you didn’t think I’d run off.” Sam grins nervously at him, fingers scratching at the leg of his jeans. He hadn’t even considered how that would look, kissing an almost-stranger in a darkened coffee shop and then disappearing the next day.  
Luke smiles, and shakes his head. “No, there was a very... friendly co-worker of yours filling in for you. Jess, I believe her name was? She seemed to know a lot about me.”

Sam winces. “Yeah. She’s been, um. I think _interrogating_ would be the best word there. Interrogating me.”  
Luke laughs at that, quietly, a small, understated sound that does something odd to Sam’s stomach. “Yes, she rather interrogated me, as well. She’s very thorough.” He decided not to mention the fact that she’d also brandished the cake knife at him and threatened to castrate him if he hurt Sam in any way at all.  
“She’s the best friend I could have,” says Sam loyally. “Did she tell you _she_ was the one that bought the tickets to _Paradise Lost_ for me?”

There’s a moment’s pause where Luke seems to jolt slightly, blinking at Sam in a cross between surprise and alarm and worry – and then it’s gone before Sam can analyse it. He considers asking, but he’s not sure he’s allowed to pry, not yet, and besides Luke is speaking again. “No, she did not. She simply told me you were attending a performance. I was unaware of which one.” He looks up at Sam, one corner of his mouth curling in some kind of private joke. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Oh man, it was _awesome_.” Sam tries not to turn into a total mess of excitement and happiness as he begins remembering it, and fails. “I mean, Chuck’s always good, he’s just basically brilliance personified in everything he’s ever been in, and that- what’s her face, Masters, Meg Masters, she was really cool too, I loved the kind of- her energy, you know? And the passion... I mean, and the music was brilliant too, and-” He stops, takes a deep breath, and tries to ignore the amusement on Luke’s face. “And that Morningstar guy, I mean, _wow_. Just, wow.”

Luke looks curious, blinking up at Sam. “...‘Wow’?” he asks slowly, raising an eyebrow. “Define ‘wow’?”  
“He just- there was just something about him, y’know? Like... like he _was_ his role, I don’t know.” Sam shook his head, unable to explain it properly. “He had this kind of _electricity_ , this presence – I mean, I’ve seen him before, but this time- he kind of just... _wow_.”

Luke quirks an eyebrow at Sam, smiling. “Should I be jealous?”  
Sam rolls his eyes, and elbows him lightly. “Oh, hush,” he mumbles, and then to make sure Luke does, tilts his head down to kiss the other man. Luke sighs against his mouth, obviously recognising a distraction technique when he sees one, but he doesn’t pull away. He tilts his head, leans in – and he still kisses like he’s memorising Sam, like he’s exploring. Like he’s slightly confused as to how he ended up with his lips pressed against another’s, but he’s going to make the most of the opportunity.

And as for Sam, he kisses like he’s scared Luke’s going to vanish, hard and desperate and completely ignoring the fact they’re in a park and people are staring and somewhere to his left someone’s yelling an insult. He curls an arm around Luke’s back, pulls him close, opens his lips against Luke’s, licks into his mouth and tastes warmth and bitter coffee and a hint of copper.

For that moment, in the sun-drenched park, the warmth of Luke against him and around him, Sam thinks his life is probably as close to perfect as it’s possible to get.

* * *

Life goes on very much as normal – Sam still gets up, goes to his lectures, goes to work, chats to Jess, goes out with his friends. It’s just now he also goes out with Luke, to lunch or dinner, to the park, to the cinema, once or twice to his apartment. They can’t exactly go back to Sam’s tiny cupboard in the halls of residence, or Sam would have offered to return the favour; he feels oddly guilty about not being able to.

It’s nice, comfortable, easy, and Sam loves it. Normal? Not so much, but he can live with that – he lived with his dad for eighteen years before he managed to escape to college, and he’s been living with the fact his boss is insane for the past year or so, and the fact that he now has a... a what? A boyfriend sounds childish, a partner sounds too serious, and lover just sounds wrong, especially considering they haven’t even got to that point yet.

The point is, the fact Sam’s seeing someone nearly ten years older than him doesn’t sound quite so mad in the general course of his life, somehow – although he’s dreading the moment he has to tell anyone, other than Jessica. He’s not told his friends, although they all know he’s taken the occasional interest in boys as well as girls, and he’s not told Dean, or his dad... the thought of doing that makes his insides squirm with horror.

But for now... well. Everything’s going well. _Too_ well, really, far too perfect, and Sam’s just dreading the moment he has to wake up from the dream his life’s become.

* * *

The little slice of heaven Sam’s carved out for himself lasts exactly two weeks and five days after that first kiss over the counter. He’s been expecting something to happen for a while, but not... this.

It’s a perfectly lovely Tuesday evening – well, night, really, Sam’s just about to close up the shop and start cleaning and packing things away. That’s what he’s telling himself, anyway, but with Luke leaning over the counter and kissing him languidly, almost lazily, it’s hard to muster up the willpower to pull away.

In fact, he only manages it when the bell above the door rings as a small group of theatergoers stumble into the shop, folding umbrellas up and shaking damp hair out. It’s unusual to have customers this late, but not unheard of – plenty of people hang around long after the show’s ended, trying to get autographs.

Luke’s still lounging against the counter as the group – five kids in their late teens – approaches, licking his lips, and Sam braces himself for any pointed or unpleasant comments they’re going to make. It wouldn’t be the first time; there are plenty of advantages to dating Luke, most concerning his happiness level, but increasing his level of social acceptability is not one of them.

Instead, though, the girl at the front of the group orders five hot chocolates, barely glancing at Luke. Behind her, her friends are chatting to themselves, discussing whatever they went to see in low, excited voices, and Sam lets out a low breath of relief as he turns to grab cups. He really, _really_ doesn’t need a lecture on how he’s a sick freak or is going to Hell so close to midnight.

His relief doesn’t last long.

“Oh my _god_ ,” says one of the teens suddenly, a boy with a large green streak dyed in his overly long hair. “Oh my god, Lisa, it’s him.”  
Sam doesn’t turn around at that, because who knows what they’re talking about, but when a girl – presumably Lisa – lets out a noise that sounds like a strangled squeak, he does. She’s looking directly at Luke, eyes wide and excited, and there’s a faint blush on her cheeks. “Holy- you’re Lucien Morningstar, aren’t you? Ohmygod, oh my- I’m such a fan of your work, seriously, you’re an inspiration.” She’s grinning nervously at him. “It’s an honour, um, we’ve literally just gotten back from _Paradise Lost_ , you were amazing, uh, would you mind signing my programme, please...?”

Sam stares, open-mouthed, and waits for Luke to smile and shake his head and tell them they’ve mistaken him for someone else.

It doesn’t happen. Luke does smile, but he accepts the programme the girl hands him, scrawling a messy black signature across the front of it with a pen from the pot that rests permanently on the counter. Sam’s still staring, shocked and confused, not quite getting what’s going on in front of his eyes. One of the girls at the back of the group is looking at _him_ , not Luke, and there’s something like jealousy in her eyes – which makes no sense, because this is _Luke_ , Luke Novak, not–

“Lucien Morningstar?” manages Sam, voice tight and rough and almost strangled. “ _Lucien Morningstar_?”

Luke’s head shoots up from where he’s signing the programme, and when they focus on Sam’s face they’re soft and almost guilty. He hands the programme back to the girl, who grins and clutches it to her chest, and he opens his mouth to say something, but Sam’s not having any of that.

“What happened to Luke, huh?” he asks, and his voice is low and rough with anger. he knows he’s being unfair, but he _trusted_ Luke handed his heart over to this man who it turns out he doesn’t even know. “Were you planning on telling me? Ever? Or were you just gonna keep stringing me along, keep laughing behind my back? What– what am I, just some kind of petty amusement to you?” He shouldn’t be doing this, not here, not in front of these strangers whose grins are slowly sliding off their faces, but he can’t help himself.

“No– Sam, I... care about you greatly. I–” Luke breaks himself off at the look on Sam’s face, at the confusion slowly turning to abject horror on the face of Lisa. “I think now is not the time to have this conversation,” he says slowly, licking at his lips in a vaguely nervous gesture and meeting Sam’s eyes. There’s an apology in there that Sam doesn’t want to acknowledge. “I should go.”

Sam doesn’t agree with him, can’t bring himself to do that – he knows if he says, “Yes, you should,” in the cold tone of voice he wants to then this, whatever it is, will be over for good – but he doesn’t try to stop him. Luke nods to him, says, “It was a pleasure to meet you,” to the still-lingering teenagers, and turns on his heel and walks out the shop.

The bell tinkles behind him, and then there’s silence.

“Oh. Oh my god. Oh, fuck, I’m– so sorry. I didn’t know, I didn’t realise, I’m–” Lisa’s looking at him with horror in her eyes, an expression mirrored in those of her friends, and she seems close to tears as she shakes her head frantically.  
“Don’t,” says Sam shortly, refusing to swear and rage like he wants to. Lisa falls silent, biting her lip and looking as apologetic and ashamed as it’s possible for a human to be. “Just... don’t.”

He makes their drinks in silence, five hot chocolates – in to-go cups, even though they asked for eat-in – and pushes them across the counter to them in silence. “Twenty two dollars, please,” he asks, voice flat and empty, and the boy pushes a three ten dollar bills across the to him.  
“Keep the change,” he says, not able to meet Sam’s eyes. “Sorry.”

They walk out in silence, clutching a hot chocolate each, and Sam shuts the shop in silence. He doesn’t clean up very well, knows Gabriel will have words with him tomorrow for the sloppily wiped tables and the half-dried cups, but he can’t bring himself to care.

* * *

Sam turns up for work the next day in a foul mood – Jess picks up on it right away, knows something’s happened, but simply pulls him into a hug and then gets on with serving the next customer. He’s ridiculously grateful that she doesn’t push him, doesn’t

Sure enough, though, Gabriel wasn’t pleased by the mess Sam left last night (using ‘not pleased’ is possibly akin to describing a tornado as ‘a breath of wind) and comes out of the back room less than ten minutes after Sam arrives, hands on hips. Despite the fact he’s roughly half Sam’s size, Sam always feels small next to him, and when Gabriel gives him that _look_ , one disappointed eyebrow raised, Sam shrinks.

“You left a right mess last night, kiddo,” he says easily, arms folded across his chest and eyes hard. “Took me an hour to clear up. You think I’m paying you to leave a mess?” His voice is light, even, but there’s an edge to it that makes Sam cringe.  
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles quietly. “I shouldn’t have– I’m sorry. I’ll– work overtime. Make it up.”

Gabriel blinks, surprised, and his eyes narrow. Sam _never_ gives in that easily; he’s never rude, not exactly, but if Gabriel pushes he pushes right back. “Right,” he says, taking a step forward and poking Sam’s chest. “What’s up with you?” People say many things about Gabriel, complimentary and... not so complimentary, but no one would dare accuse him of not looking after his staff.

Sam looks up from where he’s staring at at the floor, shoulders hunched over. “I b- had an argument with my boyfriend,” he says quietly, voice rough around the edges from lack of sleep, and winces at the word that nearly escaped. “Last night. Just... an argument.” Because they haven’t _broken up_ , they really haven’t, it’s just an argument, just a little misunderstanding, everything will be fine. He hopes.

He’s never exactly outright told Gabriel about his preferences, and it only occurs to him after he’s said it that his boss might not be overly happy, but he looks up to see Gabriel’s eyes softening. “Sucks to be you,” he says, shrugging one shoulder, because he doesn’t _do_ comfort, not exactly. But the lack of continued scowling is enough to tell Sam he’s been forgiven. “No need to overtime, kiddo, I understand – but in future, private life out of work hours, yeah?” He nods comfortingly, claps Sam on the shoulder, and shoots Jess a _look_ before returning to the back rooms to whip up god only knows what.

Jess doesn’t need the look. She’s already there, winding arms around Sam’s waist and pulling him forward into a hug, and as Sam pulls her close and drops his head onto her shoulder as best he can, he wonders what on earth he did to deserve such a wonderful friend. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs to him, stroking his back. “What happened?”

Someone behind them clears their throat, and Sam reluctantly lets go of Jess to turn around. “My apologies, how may I help you?” he asks, not needing to turn around to know that, behind him, Jess is glaring daggers at the sour-faced woman standing there with one eyebrow raised.

In between customers and cleaning tables and replenishing stock, it takes almost all of the two hours that their shifts overlap by for Sam to get the whole story out. Jess looks appropriately shocked when he tells her about the fact that his boyfriend is apparently also a world-famous actor – at least for a moment, before lapsing into badly-suppressed excitement. “How on _earth_ didn’t you realise who he was?” she asks incredulously, shaking her head. “Sam, you went to see him in a _play_!”

Sam mutters something under his breath and scrubs at a stain on the table in front of him, cursing food dye and everything it chooses to be. “Dunno. I was really high up and everything– I mean, I kind of thought he looked familiar, but I’d been to that other _Thousand Deaths_ thing so I just sort of figured...” He shrugs carelessly. “Dunno.”

“Oh, I wasn’t– Sam, I wasn’t accusing you, I just–” Jess shakes her head, sighing, and for a moment there’s silence. Then, finally, she adds, “Well. It seems to me that you didn’t even really have a proper argument – you just panicked a bit, understandably, and he wanted to... give you your space, to come to terms with things. I’m sure he’ll come back soon, and you two can talk things over and sort it all out.”

Sam hopes to God she’s right.

* * *

That first night, Sam expects him to come back – expects to see Luke walk back through the doors as usual (after doing an evening performance, he now knows, and being detained whilst de-costuming and signing autographs) and ask for some invented drink and smile at Sam with that half-curl of his lips that Sam loves so much.

He _wants_ it, more than anything,

It hurts, like a physical pain in his chest, when he finally gives up at one in the morning, an hour later than they’re supposed to closed. He’s already cleaned everything up, tidied the tables and shut the stock away, and has just been sitting there for nearly half an hour, waiting.

Waiting, apparently, for someone who’s not coming.

He stands up with a low sigh that gets strangled in his chest somewhere, twisted with barbs inside his throat. Its cold outside – not long now until the first snow of the year, and he tugs his coat closer around him against the sharp wind skidding down the neat alley made for it by tall buildings. Despite the early hour, there’s still plenty of people about and wandering around, but nonetheless, Sam feels achingly, impossibly alone.

* * *

By the fourth day, even Jess has run out of positive things to say, and the tentative voice message Sam left on Luke’s mobile yesterday hasn’t been replied to.

He sends a text that night – _we need to talk. call me. please_ – as he steps out of the shop and locks up, twisting his scarf tighter around his neck, and considers calling again. After a minute of standing there staring at his phone, oblivious to the people hurrying past, he shakes his head and shuts it, pushing it into his pocket.

* * *

Sam doesn’t see Luke for the rest of the week. Not that he really goes looking for him, other than leaving another message asking to talk, and hopefully peering out the shop window when any attractive thirty-odd man walks past, but he’d hoped... he’d hoped the Luke would come find him, maybe, turn up in the shop again and explain things and apologise, give Sam a chance to apologise for overreacting.

But he doesn’t.

Needless to say, the rest of Sam’s week does not go well.

* * *

“Samuel.”

Sam jumps, fumbles with the cup he’s holding and nearly drops it – because it’s been a week, a whole week, and he’s not heard _anything_ , and now it’s Sunday (afternoon, at that, nearly five already), and _he_ is never here Sunday, except he is–

He sets the cup back on the counter gently, takes several deep breaths, and turns around. “Luke,” he says, as calmly as he can. He’s not entirely sure what he _wants_ to say. Maybe _get out,_ or _I’ve missed you_ , or _please not here_ because he can already see the people turning to stare at the actor, hear the soft whispers of, “Lucien Morningstar!” running through the café. “Can I help you?”

Luke shakes his head, tongue skating across his lip nervously. There’s the familiar flash of silver, and Sam’s stomach twists with want, with the urge to lean across and kiss, taste, feel. He curls fingers around the lip of the counter instead, and asks, “Why are you here?”

“I came to–” Luke cuts himself off, shakes his head, chewing on his lip. “I understand your unhappiness with me being– something other than what you had come to know me as.” He pauses, thinking, and when he starts speaking again there’s a tone of almost frantic worry in his voice. “I never lied to you, Sam, I promise. I told you only the truth, just– you were never a ‘petty distraction’, you’re beautiful and perfect, and– I really am called Luke Novak. Lucien is just my stage name. I never lied.”

He’s wide eyed, nervous, practically begging Sam to believe him, and Sam _does_. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, surprising himself almost as much as Luke. “I was– angry, at first. But I kind of understand why you didn’t tell me. I just– I just wish you had.” Luke’s words hadn’t been an apology, not even close, but it’s good enough. Sam had realised early on in their... he supposes it really _is_ a relationship, that Luke is bad with says sorry. This, coming from him, is practically begging on bended knee.

“It was... nice,” says Luke softly, looking oddly vulnerable. “Everyone makes assumptions about me, from the media, from my name, without ever having met me, but you...” He shakes his head, drawing in a slow breath. “You took me for what I _was_ , not what they saw. Not what the media says about me. For the first time in years, there was someone being _honest_ , and I– I didn’t want that to end. Even if it meant me having to conceal certain things.”

There’s a line forming behind Luke, customers scowling and muttering amongst themselves, but neither Sam nor Luke are paying them any attention. Most seem to realise that, even if they’re not happy about it, something beyond them is going on right now, and are patient enough to wait.

Sam nods at Luke’s words. he doesn’t understand – couldn’t possibly understand because he’s not famous, he’s just some college kid hoping to be a half-decent lawyer one day – but he can empathise, can understand the justification. Luke’s hands are white-knuckled, resting on the very edge of the counter, and Sam reaches across to curl his own fingers over Luke’s cold ones. “It’s okay,” he repeats quietly. “It doesn’t change anything.”

“Really?” The sheer _hope_ in Luke’s voice takes Sam’s breath away. He sounds as if Sam has just offered him redemption, absolution, rather than a second chance when he never really ruined his first.  
“Yes, really,” says Sam, smiling gently. “Of course. I’m not– As if I’d be stupid enough to throw _this_ away over something so small.”

There’s a moment of absolute silence, where Luke stares at him in complete shock, and Sam stares right back.

And then Luke smiles, lips half-curling at the corners and parting slightly, showing teeth and warmth and a  flash of silver, and Sam gives in. He gives in and leans forward, grabbing the lapel of Luke’s jacket and pulling him forward into a kiss – tasting the heat of his mouth, the slow slide of tongue over teeth and

It’s a bit difficult to know for sure, because right at that moment Sam’s mind is in other places – most of them focused on the curl of Luke’s fingers at the back of his neck and the lazy, proprietary drag of teeth across his lip – but he’s fairly sure a few people at the back of the queue walk out. Someone to his left, or maybe a couple of someones, wolf-whistle. There’s a bit of cheering, a smattering of claps, probably from the same group of people, but he grins into Luke’s mouth all the same, dizzy with the sheer euphoria of it all.

He pulls away after a low moment, running his tongue over his lip as if to catch the lingering taste of Luke’s mouth. “I have customers to serve,” he says quietly, eyeing the line behind the actor, “and you have a play to go get ready for. It’s already quarter past five, you’re gonna be late.”  
“I’m sure they’ll manage with me being a few minutes behind schedule,” murmurs Luke, eyes suddenly playful and oddly dangerous.

“No,” says Sam firmly, despite the twist in his stomach at the sudden change in tone of voice. “I’ve got customers to serve. And I’ll see you tonight, anyway, after the performance?” It’s not meant to be a question, but somehow it comes out as one all the same.  
“Of course.” There’s no hesitation behind Luke’s answer. “Until tonight, then.”

“Until tonight,” echoes Sam, mouth curled in a hopeless smile as he watches Luke leave – except this time, when the door falls shut with a ring, it doesn’t feel like an end; it feels like a beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that (finally). Took me long enough to finish it! Although possibly not the actual end... I have other ideas for this little universe, so expect to see a couple of one shots or something popping up around the place. :3 Hope you all enjoyed the read!


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